Category: Fiction

Southern Legitimacy Statement: Born and raised in Arkansas with a hog pen in the front yard and pond in the back--grits on the stove. In these parts the Civil War is only referred to as The War of Northern Aggression. I grew up about three miles from Clifton Clowers and if you don' t know who that is, I'll have to ask you about your southern legitimacy. I could also tell you about the fishing, the trees and much cattle.

Southern Legitimacy Statement: Gary V. Powell is a North Carolina writer with his back against New Orleans.

Southern Legitimacy Statement My parents were born in the south. Colloquialisms are so ingrained in me that when I repeat them, people in the western states look at me like I’ve got a caterpillar perched on my nose. I don’t think I’ve pronounced the ‘g’ on any word ending with ‘ing’ since I learned how to talk. I say pillas instead of pillows and windas … well, you get the idea. My brother taught me how to catch crawdads in a can when we were kids. He also shot me in the face with his BB gun. Ouch!

Southern Legitimacy Statement: My father was possessed by a trailer. My sister gave into the influence of a creek full of evil spirits housed in wrecked cars. I myself am unduly vulnerable to the influence of heavy metal and hip-hop. I wear my shirt open two buttons – not on purpose but because this is simply the kind of animal I am. I partially grew up in a trailer in Big Flat Arkansas, without electricity, that smelled kind of funny because of the dead salamanders. I almost fell over in the outhouse while simultaneously balancing on the one plank that wasn’t rotten and taking a crap. I had few friends as a teenager in Kentucky. And the ones I did have were mostly dogs and trees. I’ve killed a lot of things and felt bad about it, but can’t figure out any other way to live.

Southern Legitimacy Statement: I proudly claim Southwest Virginia as my home. I grew up in the heart of the Appalachian Mountains with three brothers. My childhood was spent roaming through the woods, choppin' off roosters' heads (Mom said we couldn't have more than one rooster at a time), and going to school. When I was fourteen, my daddy taught me how to drive a tractor. When I was fifteen, my little brother taught me how to shoot a gun (only because them darn coyotes kept snatchin' the baby cows - I would not have touched a gun otherwise). As I grew older, people seemed to think that these things were something to be ashamed 'bout. I tried to write things that didn't quite sound like me, but were about city people. I don't know a darn thing about city people, except what I read in books. Therefore, my writing wasn't that great. Then, I started writing about what I know - country people, and my writing sounded pretty good. I say, leave the city writin' for those that live in the city. Me? I am goin' to write about the country and my beloved Appalachian Mountains.

Southern Legitimacy Statement: I live in East Alabama, otherwise known as the Florida panhandle.

Southern Legitimacy Statement In August there was always the river. On dog days, school beckoning, the joy of uninterrupted time between the morning and evening chores long absorbed by a sun that had flattened your expectations of what summer would bring, I seemed to always find myself at the river. Some people are drawn to fire, others to water, moving water that is, even if the movement is nearly imperceptible, and in my South the summer heat warned me away from fire. It was the river inching through the thick woods that lured me to come, preferably alone, to come and clear away a spot to sit among the dead leaves and rocks and branches, to come and immerse myself in the stream of thoughts and dreams and ambitions that, yet unbruised by the world, raced inside the visitor sitting above the patient river.

Southern Legitimacy Statement: Moving to Florida when I was sixteen, we crossed the border under the shadow of a billboard which read, "This is Wallace Country." I turned to my mother and asked who Wallace was. I had a lot to learn about The South. Now, I'll slip in a ya'll once in a while and I love grits and Southern Magnolia blooms, but I still hate gators and that horrid kudzu.

Southern Legitimacy Statement: I know what a crawdad hole looks like and how to make sassafras tea. I know the south is a place where you can get your heart broke. I'm not the only one with that knowledge.

Southern Legitimacy Statement: My Mama celebrated the birth of my son by having her picture taken in front of the Jefferson Davis Memorial stone on First and Coliseum Streets around the corner from her house in the Garden District. When she died, I put her ashes in a Ziplock bag and flew her to La Guardia. Today she’s shelved in an urn of her breakfront in my house on Long Island. My black Labrador named Comus—in honor of the parade (Mama was a Comus maid)—has never been down south.

Southern Legitimacy Statement: I was born when mama was making Benedictine and daddy was drinking a Mint Julep. They were supposed to be at The Derby, and they had fine outfits. Mama had a long white dress with embroidered flowers and a huge white hat with flowers—lots and lots of yellow, pink, and white flowers. Daddy had a seersucker suit with a smart straw hat. Mama handed the Benedictine over to Granny Bray, who had come to stay with Sister. Daddy lit his pipe and said, “For this, I’m missing the Derby,” then smiled with his blue eyes and lifted my mama and carried her to the car.

Southern Legitimacy Statement: I'm one of those South Arkansas kids, born and raised in the cotton fields of Chicot County and weaned on sweet tea and fried chocolate pies. I'm one of those kids who has slapped a jillion mosquitoes dead on my neck, and combed my legs for a jillion seed ticks, and fought a jillion G.I. Joes in the trenches of my rain-washed back yard gulley. In my youth, when I wasn't outracing three-legged coon dogs on three-wheeled ATVs (me on the wheeler, not the dog), I was cane-pole fishing in the 43 Canal, down near Grandma Bernice's house in the swarmy Dermott Delta. Under Grandma's dusty quilt I learned to read and write, and on the brown banks of the swimming hole I learned that a good story can sometimes be one of Dad's good ol' fishing lies.